Bones In the River

by Zoe Sharp

  “Because, as I recall, it’s a Romany tradition that you don’t ever speak the names of the dead,” the copper went on. “But you spoke Patrick Doherty’s name to me without a flicker.”

  “He’s gone,” Bartley said. “But not dead, no. I changed me name, is all. Got tired of being the man I was. And when Queenie said she’d have me, I wanted to honour that—and Queenie’s father—by leaving Patrick Doherty behind me.”

  Nick frowned. “We didn’t find any outstanding warrants for Doherty.”

  “Ah, there are more kinds of trouble than just the sort that’s of interest to the likes of you, my friend.”

  Nick nodded at that, as if he understood. And maybe he did, Queenie thought. From the looks of his face, his hands, he was no stranger to the rougher side of life.

  “I just have one last question,” he said. “Why were you there in the first place—at the Elliots’, I mean? Were you looking for Owen?”

  Bartley tensed so suddenly it sent an obvious barb through the wound—which, she noticed, the gavver had carefully avoided mentioning.

  “Old Agnes,” he said when he could speak again, which had Queenie’s gaze jerking to meet his. “She told me…what she’d done. I think she knew she was losing her grip, even back then. She wanted to…confess, while she still had her wits about her. Sent you a letter, she did.”

  “I never got any letter…” Her voice was a whisper.

  Vano cleared his throat. “You didn’t,” he said, and the colour in the tips of his ears and the sides of his neck gave her the reason.

  “You took it. You read it!” Her voice rose, outraged.

  “He did,” Bartley said gently, reaching for her hand. “We went to see if we could find him—your son. And what we did find meant we daren’t risk fighting for him…”

  Queenie gave a reluctant nod. When she looked at Nick again, her eyes were bright and fierce with the effort it took her to be strong.

  “Does that answer all you had to ask?” she demanded.

  “I think it does.”

  Bartley gave her hand a squeeze. “And…will there be charges laid against us?”

  “Well, that’s not up to me but, seriously? I very much doubt it. The worst we could bring is possibly prevention of a proper burial—maybe perverting the course of justice?” His lips twitched, perilously close to a smile. “I have a feeling my superintendent would not like the adverse publicity it would bring.”

  He nodded to them, opened the doors and climbed down from the wagon. Queenie moved to the doorway.

  “You know the worst thing?” she said. He paused, looked up at her. “He and Ocean played together, whenever we camped on Mallerstang. They were friends, the pair of them. And never knew they were half-brothers.”

  104

  “Grace! Hey, wait up a minute!”

  Blenkinship broke into a jog the moment he recognised the unmistakable figure. For all her faults, being hard to look at was not one of them, he decided.

  Almost makes it a shame…

  She paused and let him come to her, like it was some kind of right. He forced a relieved and friendly look onto his face.

  They were on one of the fields that had been opened up for the Travellers to camp, to the west of the town. After a fruitless search he’d finally resorted to calling her, told her it was urgent to meet face-to-face. The fact she’d agreed, and given him her location without apparent hesitation, gave him hope.

  “What was so important, Christopher?” she asked.

  “Look, I know we don’t always see eye-to-eye,” he said, “but I’ve just received some major intel and we need to act on it fast or there’s going to be proper bloodshed.”

  “Oh?”

  He gritted his teeth. Never had one word sounded so condescending as when she uttered it, like that, so cool and distant.

  “Aye. A couple of the locals have got a gang of lads together and they’re on their way down here, tooled up—right now—and out to start a pitched battle with the Gypsies.”

  Grace frowned and he resisted the urge to hold his breath while he waited for her to bite. From her past actions, it seemed to him that she liked the limelight, and wasn’t averse to taking a few risks if it put her centre stage.

  Still she hadn’t reacted. A couple of young kids ran past, one chasing the other. Both were whooping with laughter.

  “Come on, Grace!” he urged. “Can you imagine what will happen if they get loose in here with this lot—women and kiddies? It’ll be mayhem.”

  She looked at him more closely then. “Christopher…we’re crime scene, not armed response. What is it, exactly, that you think we’re going to be able to do?”

  As if to confirm what he was telling her, a police van appeared on the nearby road, heading up from the direction of the town. It was travelling at speed on blue lights. As it reached the slip road for the dual carriageway, they heard the wail of its siren, too.

  Frustrated by her lack of willingness, Blenkinship tried to take her arm, to hustle her toward the field exit. Grace dug her heels in and twisted easily out of his grasp.

  “Well, we’re not going to be able to do anything if we don’t give it a try, pet, are we?” He was aiming for persuasive. Instead, all he heard was desperation.

  She stepped back away from him, wary now. He was losing her…

  “Oh, for—” He lunged for her, grabbed her at elbow and wrist, his grip hard this time, his voice harsh. “For once in your life will you just do as you’re damn well told, woman!”

  The next moment, he was lifted and spun, like he weighed nothing. Just for a split-second, he thought Grace had done this to him. He had no idea how.

  Then he hit the ground with a thud that knocked most of the breath from his lungs. A heavy knee between his shoulder blades did the rest. Both arms were wrenched behind his back and he heard the ratchet of handcuffs bracelet his wrists. He tried to protest but could only produce a wheeze.

  He heard Nick Weston’s voice ask, “Are you OK, Grace?”

  “Yes, I’m fine.” She leaned down into Blenkinship’s field of view. “But if you honestly believed I would go anywhere with you, Christopher, after watching what was on that memory card, you’ve got another think coming…”

  105

  Nick hauled Blenkinship to his feet, reciting his rights more out of habit than anything else. As he did so, he became aware that a couple of people around them had become half-a-dozen, with more approaching all the time.

  “Nick, it was him—he killed Jordan,” Grace murmured, jerking her head in Blenkinship’s direction. “You have to get him out of here before they lynch him.”

  Nick almost argued. There were so many questions he hardly knew where to begin. Then he looked about him, saw the focus of the gathering crowd was fixed only on the handcuffed man, and felt ice pool at the base of his skull.

  “You’re coming, too.”

  But she shook her head. “I need to explain to Queenie…what happens next—I owe her that,” she said. “I’ll be fine. Go—now.”

  He hesitated a second longer. It felt like running away.

  She mouthed, “Please!” and he did as he was ordered, dragging Blenkinship along by one arm. In much the same way, it occurred to him, that the man had tried to drag Grace. Nick had no doubts that she would have fended him off successfully on her own. But he had tackled Blenkinship on the basis of why have a big dog on hand and go to the trouble of biting somebody yourself?

  Blenkinship, slower to read the situation, began to drag his feet, to protest about his treatment, his rights.

  Nick whirled, got right in his face. “Do you really have a death-wish? Or are you just stupid?”

  Then he caught on a little too well, putting on a burst of speed. Nick had to yank him back, muttering, “For God’s sake, man. Walk, don’t run.”

  In fact, he reckoned that appearing to handle Blenkinship on the rough side probably worked in their favour. It made the arrest seem less like a rescue. As it was, he ma
rched the disgraced CSI down the hill and shoved him into the passenger-side rear seat of the Subaru, without intervention.

  There, Nick quickly unlatched the handcuffs from Blenkinship’s right wrist, threaded his left arm through the seatbelt, and snapped the loose cuff around the grab handle above the door.

  He’d already made the driver’s seat before the swell of people began to move, firing the engine and hustling the car out of the gateway.

  Getting down Long Marton Road and under the long railway bridge was slow going. The road itself was filled with wandering pedestrians, strung-out family groups too busy gawping to hear the motor revving behind them. And too many horses to count, going to and from the flashing lane further up the hill.

  As Nick reached the turning for the A66, two more police vehicles were heading up Battlebarrow toward him. The first shot past and disappeared. But the second slowed and curtly waved him on ahead. Nick did as he was bid, frowning. When you were on blue lights, in his experience, road manners went by the board.

  He put his foot down as they left the town behind them, feeling the Subaru squat as the aerodynamic spoilers came into effect and sucked it to the tarmac. By the time he reached the dual carriageway, he was doing close to eighty. He glanced in the rear-view mirror. The squad car following him slowed abruptly and slewed across the slip-road, blocking it to further traffic.

  Ah, so that’s why you let me go first…

  They were closing the road.

  He shifted his head slightly and checked his mirror again, this time making eye contact with Blenkinship in the back seat.

  “What’s going on, Chris?”

  “You should be asking your brother-in-law that, mate,” Blenkinship said, lip curling.

  Nick did not bother to point out that he and Lisa were not married. “Karl? What’s he been up to?”

  “He’s got a beef with the Gypsies, hasn’t he? Arranged some mob from up north to come down and sort them out. What do you think I was trying to get through to McColl? But, would she listen—?”

  He stopped speaking abruptly as Nick saw the stationary vehicles just up ahead and, beyond them, more flashing blues, and began to brake. On the other side of the road was a large single-decker coach—the kind his gran would have taken on trips to the Continent. It had not been pulled over so much as forced to stop, at an angle across its lane. There were two squad cars, one stopped in front and the other alongside.

  Some of the coach passengers were already spilling out of the vehicle onto the verge. They were nothing like Nick’s gran—consistently big blokes, clearly not at all awed by the two officers who were doing their best to control the situation.

  If Nick’s swift appraisal was accurate, the uniforms were hanging on by their fingernails. And if what Blenkinship had just told him was true, the coach-load were here on the promise of a fight. They did not look concerned who that might be with.

  The traffic on his carriageway was mostly at a standstill now anyway. Nick glanced in his mirrors, then twisted the wheel and swerved over to the left and onto the verge himself. He switched off the engine and punched the hazard lights.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Blenkinship demanded.

  Nick opened the door and threw him a hard stare over his shoulder. “My job.”

  Can you remember a time when you did yours?

  As an afterthought, he added, “Stay here.”

  Blenkinship rattled the cuff still firmly attached to the grab rail. “Oh yeah, very funny.”

  Nick jogged between the idling cars. Just as he reached the centre of the road, he saw two men get out of a van that had stopped a little way ahead. He recognised the pair immediately—Lisa’s brother, Karl, and Dylan Elliot. He was aware of a tightening in his gut, a buzzing in his ears. His hand ached, as if to remind him of the last time he’d walked toward something when he should have walked away from it.

  Just for a second, the physical reaction shook him.

  I thought I was over this.

  And that’s when Karl turned his head and looked straight into Nick’s eyes. There was no fear there, he saw, just a condescending sneer. An overwhelming confidence that, whatever he had planned, Nick had neither the balls nor the ability to stop him.

  Before he could shout, Karl swaggered over to join the men from the coach in haranguing the two uniforms.

  “Dylan, what the hell are you trying to do?” Nick called to the other man. “Because, trust me, this is not going to achieve anything.”

  “You reckon?” Dylan threw back. “Those Gypsy scum killed my kid—he was mine as much as anyone’s. And they killed my mate. And you spineless lot have done nothin’ but try to frame me for it. So why in hell should I trust anythin’ you say?”

  Nick edged nearer, hoping he could grab Dylan’s arm if he needed—stop him doing something he’d regret when the truth had come out.

  The uniformed copper from the second car caught sight of them. He moved forward, gesturing furiously.

  “Hey, you two. Get back in your vehicles!”

  Dylan saw his chance and dashed across to join Karl. The uniform glared at Nick, then a light bulb seemed to come on, bringing relief with it. “Weston! What are you doing here?”

  “Whatever you need me to,” Nick said, eyes on the milling crowd. They were still getting off the coach. Hell, how many of them are there?

  “Back-up’s on its way,” the uniform said, jaw tight. “Slip-roads are blocked. Traffic’s being kept back. We just need to hold ’em here for another ten or fifteen—”

  But as he spoke they both became aware of a thundering noise, fast approaching. As he listened, Nick realised it was the thudding of many hooves, moving at a gallop, until the air itself seemed to thicken and vibrate.

  Everyone quietened as the sound grew louder. Their heads turned almost as one, toward the field on the other side of the wire fence that separated the low embankment from the carriageway.

  And then, over the grassy crest came the first wave of horses. Piebalds and skewbalds, mostly ridden bareback, some still with driving harness attached. All of them carried one Gypsy rider and many were two-up. Some of the Gypsies had whips, or clubs, or any other makeshift weapons they’d found close to hand. Nick saw several machetes, even a scythe. They rode right up to the fence line and slithered to a stop, looking down furiously on the enemy.

  “When you said back-up was on its way,” he murmured to the uniform, “I didn’t think you meant the cavalry…”

  106

  No sooner had Nick driven away than the Gypsies started to gather in earnest. Grace reached for her phone and called Hunter Lane. Blenkinship may have been spinning her a line to get her alone but not about the root cause. There was indeed a coachload of trouble on its way, she was told. Appropriate steps were being taken. Every available officer was being rounded up and sent to help deal with the incident.

  As Grace ended the call, she began to silently query if the word ‘incident’ was anywhere near enough to cover the activity around her.

  It looked like an army, under attack and prepping for war.

  Queenie reappeared at that moment. Grace had not even been aware that she’d gone. But she was now riding the thickset piebald Grace had last seen grazing peacefully alongside their caravan. He’d looked staid and steady, maybe a few years past his best.

  Not anymore. He was lifting his knees high, jittery with transmitted tension, and throwing his head about to reveal the whites of his eyes behind the blinkers of his bridle. Grass-coloured froth flew from his open mouth. Behind Queenie, her brother arrived on his own mount. She looked about her, took in the numbers, and nodded.

  “We heard what your man said,” she told Grace. “It’s nothing we haven’t been expecting.”

  “The A66 will be blocked off,” Grace said. “They won’t let you get anywhere near.”

  Queenie flashed her a quick smile. “There’s other roads,” she said, and wheeled away.

  An old man arrived with a skinny ch
estnut mare pulling a two-wheel lightweight cart, similar to a racing sulky. He jumped down and offered the reins and whip to Bartley with a toothless grin.

  “Go on, chavo,” the man urged. “You’re more a cooroboshno than I’ll ever be.”

  Bartley clapped him on the shoulder and hopped up onto the bench seat. In doing so he forgot about the bandages covering his ribs, Grace saw, and whatever injury lay beneath them. The pain brought him up short, almost bent him double. He paused to catch his breath.

  She used the opportunity to climb up alongside him.

  The old man gave her a dubious glance and said something to Bartley. Grace heard the words, “Rawniskie dicking gueri,” but nothing more.

  Bartley flicked his eyes toward her, said, “Oh, I’ll not forget,” and slapped the reins against the chestnut’s rump. The horse bounded forward, and then Grace was more concerned with hanging on for grim death—or was it dear life? She could never quite remember.

  They shot out of the field gateway and instantly turned back on themselves, up a dusty track that ran parallel to the camping field in a dead straight line.

  “What is this—a footpath?”

  “It’s the old Roman road,” Bartley said, loud enough to be heard over the thumping hoof beats. There were more horse-drawn vehicles in front and behind them, and a young lad on a pony shot past in the narrow gap between sulky and hedge.

  The track jinked over a bridge crossing the railway line, which Grace was pretty sure was not something the Romans had to take into account. Then Bartley was tugging the chestnut’s head away from the track. The wheels bounced clear of the ruts and they struck out across the field. She could see the flattened trails through the grass where the other Gypsy horses had come this way before them.

  “What did the old man say to you, back there?”